


Ignite my cells, one by one

by Goldenheartedrose



Series: Autistic!Sherlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Autistic Sherlock, Community: asexual_fandom, Demisexual Sherlock, Demisexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenheartedrose/pseuds/Goldenheartedrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't do this, not normally, but it isn't for the reason that John thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignite my cells, one by one

**Author's Note:**

> Because someone said "You know what this fandom needs? A lot more sexually explicit autistic!Sherlock fics. Because autistic people often have sex too! Sometimes lots of it!" and I knew that was something that I wanted to explore.

It starts, as these things usually do, with a look. One minute they’re high on adrenaline, laughing hysterically at the ridiculousness of the situation they’ve landed themselves in this time, and the next minute, their eyes meet and all Sherlock can think is _Oh God, yes._

The way the other man looks at him is as arousing as it is infuriating. He wants, oh god, he wants John's hands on him. But it is so easy for everything to go completely wrong. One misstep, one false move, and all of this might be over before it’s begun. He steps closer to John, crowding into his space, placing a hand firmly on his hip. "I don't usually do this," he says, trying not to cringe at the gruff tone his voice has taken on.

"Do you not want to... " John's face flushes in embarrassment, as though he thinks he’s misread the signals.

"Don't be an idiot. Of course I do. It's just that your experience is mostly with women, John."

"That’s true. That doesn't mean I do not know how to please a man." His voice takes on a tone of defensiveness, and it nearly makes Sherlock laugh.

"That isn't what I meant." Sherlock bites down on his lip and takes a deep breath before beginning again. "I need you to be firm when you touch me. It’s been said that I’m touch aversive, and that isn’t inherently true, but light touches, just the brush of a fingertip on my skin is too much. It makes me feel like my skin is crawling and I'm being tickled all at once.”

John frowns, wondering exactly what Sherlock is on about.  As much as he is willing to do anything to make Sherlock comfortable, he doesn’t understand the segue from him talking about John mostly having dated women and his touch aversiveness.  "That isn't something that is exclusive to men, you know. In fact, I'm failing to see what gender has to do with it at all."

This stops Sherlock in his tracks and he frowns.. "I only know what my observations have told me. I have very little experience in this area, as you know. From my understanding, women tend to prefer a more gentle touch than men. Perhaps I need to revise my findings."

John nods and breathes a sigh of relief. "Right. Sorry." He wraps one arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulls him close. "Well, I can manage that." He runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tugs, his movements just this side of firm.  Sherlock closes his eyes and utters an incoherent sound. "Still okay?" John asks.

Sherlock huffs out a shaky breath. "It's... It's good." He shifts closer to John, unable to hide his arousal. "It's very good." His face flushes as John's hand moves from his waist to his arse. "Bed?" Sherlock asks, his voice quiet and tentative, as though he were asking permission.

John smiles and takes his hand, leading Sherlock toward his own bedroom. He marvels at how sure of himself Sherlock ordinarily is, but how tentative he seems right now.  He supposes that much of that has to do with simple lack of experience, and really, it isn’t the fact that this is sexual in nature that is tripping him up.  Any situation where he finds himself out of his depth, with incorrect or incomplete evidence would make him tentative and nervous.  Sherlock might be a virgin, as both Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes had implied, but that hardly matters at this moment.  John knows that Sherlock is inexperienced in these matters, and it’s up to him to ensure that Sherlock is as comfortable as possible if things are going to continue. He briefly considers using his own room for tonight’s activities, but thinks better of that idea and heads for Sherlock’s room instead.

Sherlock feels a surge of fondness for John that he’s decided to take him to Sherlock’s own room, rather than heading for John’s.  He finds this a bit surprising, but is grateful, as he knows that John is giving him a sort of escape.  If, after all, things go badly, he is free to escape back into his own room and kick John out if necessary, rather than face the alternative of having to walk through the flat ashamed as he finds his way back to his own room.

Sherlock doesn’t let go of John’s hand as he sits down on his own bed. He toes off his shoes, then finally releases John’s hand as he lifts up his leg to take off his socks.  He reaches for his flies, but then John covers his hand with his own and whispers huskily, “Let me.”

Sherlock shudders, a mix of trepidation and pure unadulterated want. "Yes," he sighs. "Always, yes." His eyes shine as John looks up at him and how did he manage to not notice what a marvelous shade of blue John's eyes are? Deeper than the ocean, clearer than the sky -  it would be so easy to get lost in them. He begins thinking of a dozen different metaphors, none of them adequate descriptors, until he hears John call, "Sherlock," and that brings him back to the present.

John's hands have stopped moving. He's unbuttoned and unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, but when he realizes Sherlock isn’t fully present, he stopped his movements, ensuring that Sherlock actually wanted to go on. He smiles as he thinks about the implications. John is a good man.

"I'm sorry. I was thinking about the color of your eyes."

John smiles affectionately, and his eyes flutter closed and then open again. "You are the loveliest, most ridiculous man, do you know that?"

Sherlock nods. He thinks the question is meant to be rhetorical, but he doesn't think that John will mind if he answers anyway. "I know." He smiles as John lets out a warm laugh and he bends down to kiss him. Sherlock’s breath catches at the first contact of warm, slightly chapped lips against his own. It isn't as boring as his observations have led him to believe. He runs his tongue over John's lips and the taste of him, the slightly warm and sweet with a hint of spice - cinnamon, Sherlock determines - sets his nerve endings on fire. He closes his eyes and doesn’t have time to anticipate the fingers tangling in his hair. He makes a soft sound as he moves his lips against John's, the movement of his own tongue parting John's lips. He wraps his arms around John, pulling him fully onto his lap before he returns to exploring his mouth.

Sherlock's motions are slow but sure, as though he's trying to catalogue every feeling, every texture. John's lips are rough and warm, but his mouth is hot and wet and he can taste the lingering tea that John drank hours ago. He feels how tense John is, how eager he is to move on, but he wants to cherish this, wants to remember every bit of it. Finally he breaks the kiss and looks down at John, his face flushed and his breathing rough. "Okay?" Sherlock asks. John runs a hand over his face and laughs. "More than okay."

Sherlock grins, a little bit overwhelmed that he's actually doing this with John, and he knows the implications of this, and he knows that there is the possibility of this all going horribly wrong, but he ignores those niggling fears and focuses on the here and now. He runs his fingers over the back of John's neck, and it makes him groan and rock down against him. Sherlock groans at the contact, the heat of his erection making his nerves sing. "Less clothes. Please," he says, and he knows he's begging, but he doesn’t even care.  He just wants more physical contact with John.  He wants to wrap himself around him and in him and positively drown in him.

John positively growls at the request. "Oh my god, yes, you glorious creature. Yes." He climbs off his lap and removes his shoes first, then taking off his jeans as Sherlock strips off all but his pants. He pulls his jumper off over his head and begins unbuttoning his shirt, when Sherlock holds up a hand. "Wait. I want to..." He trails off and blushes. "I want to touch." John kneels over him, noticing how his breathing has become shallower. "Do you need a moment?" Sherlock shakes his head as he reaches up to unbutton his shirt. He moves slowly, every button making a quiet popping sound as he undoes each one individually. He pushes the shirt off John's shoulders, and takes in the expanse of skin in front of him. It's gorgeous, slightly darker than his own skin. He wants to touch and taste its texture, but first, he wants to look, to take in every ripple, every freckle that he didn't know to expect there. He brings his hands forward and runs his palms down John's chest, and the skin is warmer than he expects.

John's face is flushed and he squirms a bit when Sherlock’s fingers brush against his scar. He's always wanted to see it, to explore it. It's rougher than he expects and he quenches the urge to taste, at least for now.

"Does that hurt?" Sherlock asks when he feels John’s reaction to his touch.

John shakes his head, and inhales sharply. "No. It’s just -- I’m sorry it isn’t lovely to look at." Sherlock frowns and it’s like he doesn’t quite understand that.  It’s a scar, it’s a part of John, and it’s what brought John to him, so why would that not be lovely?

“Trust me?” Sherlock asks, and John nods. Something inside Sherlock's chest tightens at the thought of other people seeing John like this and not appreciating how beautiful he is. Perfect is boring, mundane. John isn’t perfect, no, and the starburst pucker just above his left pectoral muscle is by definition, an imperfection. He bends toward John finally, having completed his visual inspection, and gives his scar an experimental lick. John's knees nearly give out.

Sherlock catches him around the waist and brings him close, moving his lips experimentally over his scar before moving hesitantly over his nipple. "Oh god," John moans, clinging to Sherlock. "That is brilliant."

Sherlock grins, pleased with himself as he continues his exploration of John’s skin. He notes with interest how different each part of his chest feels against his tongue.  He tastes of salt (perspiration) and warmth, and something he isn’t quite able to identify.  He thinks, though, that it’s probably something to do with pheromones, and the chemical reaction that has drawn him to John. He licks a circle around John’s right nipple before wrapping his lips around it and sucking firmly.  John groans underneath his touch and his nipple hardens in his mouth.  

“How are you such a genius at everything?” John asks between gasps.  Sherlock just grins as he meets his eyes, flicking his tongue over his nipple. John reaches over to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and he tugs gently.  Sherlock moans and lets John’s nipple fall from his mouth.  He gasps as John tugs a bit harder.  “Yesssss,” he groans.  “Keep doing that.”  He finds it difficult to focus on anything else with all the sensation coursing through his body.  He wonders briefly if his hair follicles are actually connected neuropathically to his cock, because John’s actions are definitely eliciting a reaction. “More,” he says, his voice husky with need.  “Oh God, more.”

John pulls the both of them up and he removes his own pants and shrugs his shirt entirely off his shoulders.  Sherlock stands, a bit wobbly, a bit unsure, and he pulls his pants off.  John crowds into his space, running his fingers through those gorgeous raven curls and kissing him with all the possessiveness he can manage.  His other hand reaches around to his waist and he pulls him flush against him, moaning as his cock slides against Sherlock’s.  

The change in atmosphere is instant. Sherlock goes very still, and he bites his lip, as though he’s afraid he’s messed everything up. His eyes are closed, and John notices immediately, and drops his hands.  “Hey,” he says softly, with all the tenderness in the world. “It’s okay.  What did I do wrong?”

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes, his heart pounding. “When your cock rubbed against mine, that  was too much. It was too overwhelming.”

John nods.  “Okay.  I’m sorry. Do you want to try again? I’ll be more cautious this time.”

Sherlock looks back at him in surprise.  John has surprised him yet again.  He thought that this sort of reaction would call the entire thing to a halt, but John is willing to try again, and he isn’t even upset, as far as Sherlock can tell. “Yes. Yes, you brilliant man, yes.”

John isn’t used to being called brilliant, especially not by someone like Sherlock, and he blushes scarlet.  “Good,” he says.  “That’s good.” This is new and tentative, and he wants to savor every moment of this.  He comes closer, and he takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses his lips tenderly but fervently.  It’s a short kiss, not passionate exactly, but something else.  It’s _affectionate_ , Sherlock determines finally.

When they pull apart, Sherlock is wide-eyed and something is happening to him, endorphins flooding his veins at the sudden realization.  “You.  You love me.”

John smiles and nods.  “Yes. Of course I do.  Did  you honestly think this was just about a quick shag?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then.” John shrugs and intertwines his fingers with Sherlock’s. He brings their hands up to his lips and he kisses Sherlock’s knuckles - just short, soft kisses against his skin.  Sherlock hums as John’s lips brush his skin, and he falls back onto the bed, laying flat on his back and John tumbling down next to him.

John reaches out an arm and wraps it around Sherlock, bringing him into an embrace, resting his head against Sherlock’s neck.  He nuzzles his nose into the crook of his neck before beginning a pattern of licking and sucking against the sensitive part of Sherlock’s neck.  He’s glad that John isn’t shy about this, and there’s absolutely nothing tentative about _this_ touch.  This isn’t gentle, but it certainly isn’t violent, either.  He feels the scrape of teeth against his neck and _oh_.  That’s a new sensation, and one he relishes.  He hears a groan, and after a second realizes it’s come from _him_. “More of that,” he says, running his fingers down John’s back, as his hardening cock pushes against John’s thigh.

John is only too happy to comply, spending long moments exploring his neck (sensitive, but not extraordinarily so).  As he does so, he pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and tugs ever so slightly, just so he can hear that sound come from him.  It’s an otherworldly sound, and it doesn’t even sound like it’s come from Sherlock.  It sounds like a bitten off groan morphed with a whine and it screams _IwantIwantIwant_ to every cell in John’s body. 

Finally, they break apart, and John takes in the sight in front of him.  Sherlock’s eyes are wide, his hair disheveled and his neck is now sporting several marks that probably will still be there tomorrow.  John grins at this realization, the possessive beast within him rising up and stating, "Mine."  They’re both panting and John blinks a couple of times in order to clear his head.  “What do you want?” he asks.

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling for a minute, considering his options.  When he’s made his decision, he turns to look at John.  “You.”

John laughs.  “Not what I meant, Sherlock.”

“I know,” Sherlock smiles at him and pulls him down for a brief peck on the lips.  “I want your mouth.”

John nods, a shudder running through him at the prospect, the chill making the hairs on his arms and legs stand up on end and his nipples tighten.  “God, yes.” He reaches over and takes a few pillows and nudges Sherlock so he can prop them under his head. Sherlock rearranges himself so he’s laying flat on his back with his head elevated just slightly, but his knees are still together.  The pose is actually quite coy, despite the fact that he’s hard and wanting.  John scoots up the bed and places his hands on both of Sherlock’s knees, urging them apart, and Sherlock blushes.  He spreads his legs, cock firm between his legs, and John places his palms on Sherlock’s thighs for leverage.  “Gorgeous.  Look at you.  You are fucking gorgeous. Can I -- can I touch first?” Sherlock nods and John wraps his hand firmly around Sherlock’s cock.  Sherlock moans and lifts up off the bed.  It’s good, and it’s overwhelming - but this time, it’s a good sort of overwhelming.  The words he had before to describe such an experience are completely gone, and he’s left with moans and whimpers in their stead.  John’s hand is warm against his cock, and it’s so different from when he’s masturbated.  His hand moves firmly and slowly up and down his cock, gathering some precome from the head and using it as lubrication along the length of him.  John pushes his foreskin up and down over the head of his cock, and it’s lovely, and he thinks he could come from just this, but that isn’t what he wants to happen.  “John,” he manages to utter, not even really recognizing his own voice.  “John.  Your mouth.  Please.”  

John is happy to give Sherlock what he wants, and he kneels over him, his hands using the back of Sherlock’s thighs for leverage, and he firmly takes him into his mouth little by little, until he has the full six inches inside his mouth.  Sherlock moans, bringing his hand to John’s hair, and tugging fervently.  The motion brings tears to John’s eyes, so he squeezes Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock loosens his grip.  “Oh God,” Sherlock breathes out.  John’s mouth is pure heat and overwhelmingly slick.  His heart is pounding, and there’s a tightness in his groin that makes his thighs shake.  “I’m sorry,” he pants.  “I’m not going to last long,” he manages to say before thrusting up the tiniest bit into John’s mouth.  John understands and simply holds Sherlock’s gaze as he grips the base of his penis, sliding his mouth up and down the shaft and running his tongue across the slit.  Sherlock gasps, the multiple sources of sensory input overwhelming.  He soon feels his balls draw up and constrict, tightening his fingers in John’s hair as a warning that his orgasm is imminent.  

John doesn’t budge.  He sucks him through his orgasm, swallowing down every bit of the bitter come filling his mouth.  Sherlock’s entire world explodes into white, his vision gone, his breath labored.  John continues to suck and lick until Sherlock’s moans have turned to pained whines at his oversensitivity and he releases him. He lays down next to Sherlock, gazing at the gasping man beside him, perspiration making his curls look even more inky black than they already do normally.  He waits for him to recover, pushing a hand between his own legs and stroking lightly.

Sherlock’s heart rate steadies and he turns to John, kissing his lips softly, flicking his tongue out to swipe across his bottom lip.  “Let me,” he says, as he covers John’s hand with his own and begins stroking.  His movements are shaky, and a little bit inelegant, but John’s eyes flutter closed with a cry of “Sherlock” when Sherlock twists his wrist on the upstroke.  Sherlock catalogues John’s reactions to each touch, and he aims to focus on the ones that make him moan his name and his thigh shake.  

Soon, he finds a good rhythm, and John lets his own hand fall away as Sherlock strokes him.  He reaches his other hand down to roll his balls between his fingers, and he knows he’s close.  “Sherlock,” he warns, his voice breathy and husky.  Sherlock just looks down at him, his face calm and relaxed as he continues to stroke. “Sherlock,” he says, more insistent now.  Sherlock tightens his grip and John thrusts into his hand, yelling his name as he comes onto his belly and Sherlock’s hand.  

Sherlock briefly looks around for a flannel, but when he doesn’t find one, his eyes shine with the prospect of an even better idea.  He lifts his palm to his mouth and licks, lapping up John’s come.  John looks on in amazement as his heart rate returns to normal, and he giggles as Sherlock leans down to lick his belly clean. He reaches for him and Sherlock lays on his side, his arm around John as he kisses him sweetly.

“Not an utter disaster then,” John says with a grin.

“No.  It would appear not.”

“Perhaps a repeat performance then?”

Sherlock looks baffled at this prospect, and John’s heart sinks. “John, I do think that I’ll need a few minutes to recover. I have a shorter refractory time than most, but I don’t believe that I’ll be ready for another 20 minutes or so.”

John lets out a breath and laughs, relief flooding his system.  “I didn’t mean _now_ , you git.”

Sherlock grins and nods.  “Oh.  Then yes.  I’d like to do this again.”

 

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